


ctrl + z

by Rei_Rei (anti60ne)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti60ne/pseuds/Rei_Rei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luhan is a withdrawn novelist whose creation comes to life one day, and his world becomes overpopulated with an uninvited figure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ctrl + z

 

the landlady thought her chinese tenant was mute. however, most of the time, she slips into the notion that he simply doesn't understand korean, and once in a blue moon, she would remember that he does understand, because he had come to her and signed the lease all on his own. the whole time, he spoke not a word, offering no questions but only nods that she had to stare hard to notice.

she couldn't deny that he is the best tenant, though. he makes no trouble because he makes no noise and keeps entirely to himself. many tenants would ask if the pale, petite boy with delicate features had just moved in when in actuality, he's stayed longer than most of them. they just haven't seen him around.

the only time he steps outside his studio apartment is on monday mornings. on monday mornings, the supermarket is nearly vacant, because the housewives have already done their groceries either on the weekend or in midweek. there are no queues at the post office or laundromat. so on monday mornings, he wakes up at 7am, his door creaks open at exactly 7:30, and he begins his weekly routine hauling a medium suitcase and a reusable shopping bag slung across his thin shoulders. go to the laundromat first and drop off his laundry, setting the timer on his phone. head to the post office and pick up the mail, shoving the usual measly amount of envelopes into his messenger bag. stop by the supermarket and pick up a week's worth of groceries: noodles, eggs, vegetables, soup stock, snacks, kimchi (every other week), rice (every month), and whatever meat and fruits that are on sale at the time. return to the laundromat and pick up the laundry, stuffing it into the suitcase.

if all goes well, and it usually does, he interacts with no one but the same ahjussi fetching him his mail at the post office and the same ahjumma scanning his items at the supermarket cash register. if all goes well, he needn't say anything other than a "thank you", twice.

after he schleps everything home, panting as he flops into the couch, he is exhausted, his weekly exercise complete. he stares blankly into the wall for a few minutes of mental recovery before he returns to his desk and wakes up his pc.

he is a normal guy. or so he'd like to think. contrary to popular belief, he is not agoraphobic, nor is he oppressed by some childhood trauma that renders him incapable of any human interaction, and he is definitely not mute nor deaf. there is nothing wrong with him. or so he'd like to think.

he just doesn't think socializing is a necessity. he is perfectly content cooped up in his apartment, complacent with the lifeless company of books, gadgets, and his pc accessorized with a typewriter keyboard.

he also believes, perhaps a little irrationally, that his own imagination is his best friend, muse, and therapist all in one. it takes him to places he's too poor or lazy to physically visit. it brings him solace when he catches an incidental glimpse of potential happiness outside his window. it plants seeds of inspiration in his mind, waters it, and makes it grow when the time is right.

much to his frustrated dismay, the seeds have not been watered for days, and he has a feeling that they will never bloom, which is bad news considering he has a deadline in a week and a void of 10,000 words to fill.

sitting at the computer, he looks languidly to the wall calendar, the deadline circled in unavoidable red. he sighs and forces his eyes back to the word document pulled up on the screen, blank save for the title: metanoia.

he can't remember how in the world he came up with that title. it was probably one of the psychology books he leafed through mindlessly the other day, the enigmatic word catching his eyes the instant they set on it. metanoia, a cognitive transformation, a spiritual reformation, a spontaneous attempt of the psyche to repair itself by self-destructing and then being reborn.

he shuts his eyes and lets his mind wander through the woods of undepicted imageries and unpainted scenes, clouds of diction drifting in near-abstraction. he waits for the muse to come, to speak to him, to move his fingers.

he begins to type, with his eyes still closed. it is as if his hands have taken life on their own, formless thoughts materializing in letters and alphabets and punctuation marks, an idea, a _figure_ , taking shape amongst 12-point times new roman and between 1.5-spaced lines.

the idea soon metamorphoses into a story about a man who is trapped in his own mind, the john malkovich of a john malkovich. the man comes to have cognition and sensory perception, and begins to speak and feel in a perpetuating loop of nonsensical self-awareness. the story evolves past lunch time and into the late afternoon, and continues to foster and expand through mindless munching of snacks that lack nutritional value.

even after the sun has long retreated and the moon has come to guard the sky in its stead, the clacking of keys pierces the quiet of the night. haphazard sounds bounce off the walls that surround him, keeping him safe in a world that he knows well, a world that contains only himself, words, and imagination.

it is nearly two in the morning when his eyelids grow too heavy and his mental capacity has reached its daily quota. he rubs his eyes and arches his back in a stretch. the story continues to take shape inside his head, but he can no longer keep up. so he smooths it down and contains it in a corner of his mind, instructing it to stay there and be good, and he will revisit the next morning.

a number of hours later, he wakes to his biological clock, eyes fluttering open to cheerful gleams of sunlight, dancing through the curtains to bid him good morning.

"ah, you're awake, finally."

his shuts his eyes again, shaking his head with furrowed brows. he must still be dreaming.

"do you have anything to eat around here?"

he jolts wide awake and straightens up, his eyes darting around frantically in search of the voice. his large eyes fall on a stranger sitting on the arm of the couch, facing the bed, a hand propped beneath his chin and watching him with amused curiosity.

"wh-who are you? what are you doing here? how did you get in?" the writer stammers out a string of questions, his voice struggling to grasp form in the air, unused to being outside of his throat. he feels for some sturdy, pointy object near his bed, betting on the suspicion that the stranger is an intruder who has somehow broken into his place.

the stranger chuckles, lifting himself off the couch and walks over to the bed, his long limbs and enviable height taking the writer by slight surprise. the stranger sits on the end of the bed, legs crossed and elbows perched on his thighs. he looks at the writer with a smile full of pearly whites and eyes brimming with charm.

"you brought me here, didn't you know?" the stranger points to the computer. the writer blinks, not quite comprehending the gesture or anything regarding the current situation. then his mind begins to wrap itself around the implausible notion as it registers the fact that the figure is dressed in a thin grey sweater and slim black jeans, the same outfit that he has clothed the man in his story.

"that's not possible," he whispers, his heartbeat quickening in frightful disbelief.

"for a writer, you sure do have an open mind." the stranger snorts and gets off the bed, leaving good-humored sarcasm in his wake as he strolls toward the fridge. he opens it with liberty and rummages around. the writer gapes, mouth slightly parting and dry as the lock on the door to his world picked wide open, dangling carelessly.

\--

the writer has a hard time abandoning the possibility that he has simply become psychotic, that the stranger is merely a figment of his imagination, an absurd magic show that his eyes are performing on him. so he tries to ignore the tall figure who seems to be amused by the smallest things and bursting with incessant inquisitiveness and unfading energy. he writes as he usually does, except with headphones that he has found and dusted out of a cardboard box, filling his ears with classical music and tuning out the illusion.

but at the end of the day, he finds the unreal more real than ever as he looks down at the stranger spread out over the couch, snoring softly, long eyelashes quivering in monochromatic dreams. he reaches out, holding his breath as apprehensive curiosity oscillates through his fingers, touching the smooth, clear skin.

the warmth that seeps into his fingertips electrifies him and he is frozen, mind tripping over the fine line between real and unreal.

\--

the stranger never asks why he never leaves his apartment; it is as if he is immune to the knowledge that a whole other world exists beyond the four walls, the scenery standing outside the windows a mere painting for one-sided appreciation. to him, the apartment is the world, and that is sufficient. he revels in the discovery of something new each day within the confined space, pulling out endless ribbons of fantastical questions and groundless speculations, swirling them about with a flourish that flutters on the writer's head. he finds everything majestically fascinating, the deep voice booming in laughter that never seems to subside, corners of his eyes persistently creased in delight.

the writer wants him gone. his world only has space for one person, and now it's too crowded, overpopulated with a party of two. the stranger has made it too loud, too bright, thinning the air of aloneness with his vivacious presence. the writer can't breathe; it terrifies him that the length of his thoughts has been minimized while the girth of his feelings expands infinitely. it is another world that he hasn't been, a world that is not his own.

sometimes, he loses the ability to differentiate between the world with the stranger in it and the world with just him, solitude becoming a distant star beyond the galaxy of his mind.

\--

"why don't you give me a name?"

he pauses, considering the question. that's true; why doesn't he?

"because you're not real."

the stranger is quiet, an inkling of hurt flitting across his eyes. then he breaks into a bright smile, the insincerity almost blinding.

"but i am," he takes the writer's hand and places the palm on his chest. "don't you feel it? my heart." _is beating because of you._

\--

he sits at his desk, the computer screen glowing in the dark, accentuating the knotted brows on his tired face. the deadline is tomorrow, and his story is ready to be wrapped up, the ending already mature, waiting to be harvested. he bites his bottom lip as he stares at the last word of the document, fingertips poised above the keys in hesitation. finally, he presses them down, one by one, and a name spells out on the screen. his fingers proceed to write an untold anecdote of something a little like love, but not quite, because love is not to be expressed by words. the emotions that overflow from the screen and pour onto the keyboard and the unceasing typing feel so foreign that they can't be from him, or he may simply be oblivious to the gradual, inconspicuous growth that has taken long-term residence in the last room of his heart.

the figure on the couch stirs, rustling the sheets as his dreams burst into vibrant colors of the rainbow, dispelling the monotony of black and white.

\--

the sun shines obtrusively on the day--a thursday--he prints out the manuscript pages and mails them out. when he seals the manila envelope, uncertainties sneak in through the gap and become absorbed in between the inked sheets of A4 paper. when he returns from the post office, the sun hangs over the high noon, and beads of sweat cling to his forehead as he unlocks the door to his apartment. he almost stumbles backward as something solid and warm encompasses his small frame.

"congratulations on finishing your story," the stranger beams, ruffling the shorter one's hair.

"thanks," he mumbles as blush easily finds its way to his cheeks.

"no, thank _you_."

"for what?"

"for creating me." _and keeping me with you._

his flushed face breaks into a smile as warm lips meet his forehead, and his heart misses a beat.

the name is caught behind his tongue and air frozen in his lungs as long arms wrap themselves around him. familiar scents lull him into unfeeling the dread that creeps into his mind, a self-deceptive smile tucked into the corners of his lips.

\--

he wakes up in gasps of short breaths, memories of his nightmare erased upon surfacing above the threshold of his consciousness. his doe-like eyes, widened in fright, skitter to the figure lying next to him, undisturbed in his own carefree dreams.

he gulps uneasiness down his parched throat as he sits up, heart thumping ominously against his chest. he eventually rolls out of bed and pads heavy feet toward his desk. he wakes up his pc, and the finished word document reappears on the screen. he sits down on the chair and places trembling hands over the keyboard. his eyes flutter shut and the nightmare rushes back into his mind like an unrelenting monster, shattering him into countless shards of self-death that reflect a face that is not his own, but the stranger's. lost in a labyrinth void of himself, he becomes undone at a terminal velocity that propels him into a world that is more real than the real he's known.

his eyes shot open and he has to stare hard at the blurred word within the brightness of the screen. submerged in an unexplained fear, he hits ctrl + z, undoing the existence of the name and every word that the stranger's fingers and lips have tapped onto the pristine sheets of his heart.

he falls asleep at his desk, the cursor still blinking on the screen, awkwardly standing at the end of _his name is_.

\--

when he wakes to the next morning, his bed is empty. he doesn't need to look around to know that the stranger is gone.

his world is empty again, like how it used to be, but it feels more empty than it should be, the utter silence ticking louder than the lifeless metronome of his own heartbeat.

a presence missing leaves a larger void than an absence that was already there.

he wakes up his pc again and his eyes bore into the same document, the same words, the same space bereft of a life that had come and turned his world into something otherworldly.

his fingers hover over the keys.

_if i redo you, will you undo me again?_

it's the biggest gamble of his life, his world the stake.

he goes all in.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was an exo boot camp challenge which required no names to be used in the fic. much thanks to Laura for the beta, as always.  
> 


End file.
